


At the Museum

by gina_writes



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (literally), (though magic isn't directly mentioned just implied), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Art History, Artist Grantaire, Enjolras is art, Eventual Enjolras/Grantaire, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Falling In Love, France (Country), French, Grantaire & Éponine Thénardier Friendship, M/M, Museums, Night At the Museum AU, Nobody is Dead, Oblivious Enjolras, Pining Grantaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-19 21:47:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16542887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gina_writes/pseuds/gina_writes
Summary: “Eponine?” he whispered. “Eponine, the painting is talking to me.”***In which Grantaire is a security guard working the night shift at a small art museum in Paris, and things do not go as planned.(chapter 2 is an update, not a new chapter!)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This work was inspired by a painting on Tumblr by yu-iu, which you can see [ here! ](https://yu-iu.tumblr.com/post/173521387713/night-at-the-museum-no-drinking-during-night)
> 
> Right now I'm listing this as a completed one-shot, but I have some ideas for making it a longer piece, so we'll see what happens! 
> 
> Translations are in the end notes! 
> 
> Enjoy!!

 

Grantaire loved the night shift.

Well, he didn’t _love_ it, per se. He wouldn’t say he _loved_ anything really, except for like, big bottles of cheap wine. But he would say he preferred it. It was the lack of people that made the job worthwhile: during the day, the museum was constantly filled with tourists and families with loud kids who loved playing in the newly opened kids zone (which was basically a scaled down version of Paris where kids could pretend to have jobs and flats all while not have to pay any bills, so what was the point, really?). But at night it was just him, the empty hallways, and silence. There were never any issues—the guards over at the Louvre were constantly dealing with attempted art theft and break-ins, but apparently there wasn’t much worth stealing in this one. Sometimes he went out for drinks with the other museum guards in the city, and they would joke that Grantaire didn’t have a real security job, but Grantaire would shrug and laugh because he gets paid to stay up all night and do nothing.

Which wasn’t exactly true. He often brought a pocket sketchbook with him and practised drawing the statues or portraits or—and it hurt him to say this—tiny Paris. He could drink (which he did often), he could blast music, he could do anything he wanted, because as long as nothing “exciting” happened during the evening, the day staff wouldn’t go back through the CCTV. And as it stood, the only “exciting" thing to ever happen to Grantaire was that one night when he spent most of his shift trying to chase out a stray cat, who ended up following him home in the morning and has now become his permanent roommate.

All was fine and well in his world. He stayed up all night, slept during day, and painted on his days off. His schedule didn’t allow for much else. No one nagged him about his drinking habits (except for Eponine), and he could choose when he interacted with other people, and when to be alone. He was in control.

That is, until the new exhibit was installed.

 

* * *

 

It happened on a Wednesday. Grantaire showed up ten minutes late to his shift (it was the metro’s fault, and definitely not that he couldn’t get his sleeping cat off his uniform) to see the museum’s east wing full of people and boxes and _noise_. He saw the museum director and the curators—Eponine amongst them, putting her art history degree to good use—directing the movers, adjusting paintings and statues until they were perfectly straight, setting up red velvet ropes to keep visitors from getting too close to the art.

Grantaire looked around wildly for some sort of explanation. On the wall beside him, painted in red and gold, he saw the words VIVE LE PEUPLE: un histoire de l’Insurrection républicaine à Paris en juin 1832.

 _A history of the what?_ He rubbed at his forehead, vaguely remembering reading _something_ about a June rebellion once, but the details were mostly lost on him.

It’s not that he cared there were people here, it’s just that he wished he had more of a heads up so he could have prepared himself for so much social interaction. And maybe he would have gotten here on time. _And_ maybe he would have taken the time to research the new exhibit.

Grantaire fished his phone out of his pocket and swiped open the screen, and was halfway though typing _republican uprising 1832_ when he heard someone approach him.

“Seriously Grantaire?” Eponine scolded. He fumbled his phone, but caught it before it could hit the ground. He looked up at his friend, eyes wide. “This is what you get for skipping history class in high school.”

“Heeey Eponine,” he rubbed the back of his neck and laughed nervously. “What are you guys still doing here?”

“You had no idea there was a new exhibit opening this week, did you?”

Grantaire shook his head, caught.

Her eyebrows shot up. “Seriously? The director’s been planning this for years! She announced the opening date like, months ago!” She leaned in closer to him. “What the fuck are you doing during staff meetings? Sleeping?”

“I...” Grantaire didn’t respond, because he didn’t not show up to staff meetings tipsy or half-asleep or—

Eponine shook her head with feigned disappointment. Hopefully. “You’re a fucking mess, R.” She looped her arm around his and pulled him further into the gallery. “Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour.”

She took him around the gallery, which focused on a single rebellion within the Revolution where a group of students thought they could change the world by throwing a bunch of furniture into the streets and shooting at the army. It obviously didn’t work, which didn’t surprise Grantaire.

“They were literally our age and they thought they could overthrow the government?”

Eponine punched his arm, which usually didn’t hurt, but this time did. He rubbed his sore bicep and muttered an apology. He probably shouldn’t insult the exhibit she’s been working on like that.

There were portraits of the students involved, probably painted after they died, because Grantaire doubted student revolutionaries had time to pose; paintings of the same students sitting around tables (planning their barricade?), all in this same clean style that suggested it was the same artist painting everything. She showed him artefacts too—bits of furniture from the actual barricade, red white and blue cockades pinned to scraps of fabric, a French flag riddled with bullet holes. It was going to be a nice exhibit when it was finished, Grantaire decided, even if he thought their revolution had been a bad idea.

“But like, do you think they knew they—” The rest of his sentence was cut off by some ungodly strangled sound coming from the back of his throat, which made him sound like he was dying. He froze directly in front of a portrait of the prettiest guy he will ever see in his entire life, eyes widening. He honest-to-god felt his mouth drop.

The artist wasn’t subtle with the Apollo imagery: this beautiful, fair skinned, blue eyed god was wearing a laurel wreath around his soft gold curls, surrounded by a golden halo. A dusty pink cloth was draped around his chest and arm, leaving most of his chest exposed (Grantaire thought his heart might give out).

“Eponine,” he managed to choke out. His voice sounded small and far away. “Why is he shirtless? What the fuck does this have to do with the revolution?”

“He’s supposed to look like Apollo,” she explained, pointing at the portrait. “See—”

“No, no I understand the reference _just fine_.” Grantaire didn’t like when his art history knowledge was called into question. “But why?”

“Maybe the artist was super gay and wanted an excuse to paint him shirtless?”

Grantaire nodded slowly; that made...sense. He could see himself doing the same thing. “Do you know who painted it?”

“Artist unknown,” she said with a shrug, pointing to the display card on the wall. “But it’s signed ‘R’ on the frame, and it’s the original frame. Hey,” she elbowed him in his ribs. “Maybe it’s you!”

“I think I would have remembered meeting Apollo,” he muttered. Grantaire studied the beautiful face before him, barely restraining himself from touching the painting. “Do you know who the model is?”

“No, but even I would leave my girlfriend for him. I wouldn’t get your hopes up for a date though. Your Apollo is almost two hundred years old.” She patted him sympathetically on the back.

Grantaire frowned. It’s not like he thought he could date a dead revolutionary, but he certainly didn’t need anyone pointing out that he couldn’t. He didn’t like feeling restricted.

“We should get back to work before the boss gets mad.” She turned away from Apollo, which quiet honestly, Grantaire didn’t think he was strong enough to do. “I’m going to grab some coffee from the staff room. Want any?”

He nodded slowly, and heard Eponine laugh.

“Don’t stay in one place all night, yeah? You can come back and see him later.”

Grantaire felt his face grow warm, but if anyone asked, he would deny it had anything to do with the boy who tried to save the world.

 

* * *

  
Over the next week, Grantaire spent hours in front of the painting, page after page in his sketchbook filled with recreations of the boy, studies of his hands ( _oh my god, his hands are beautiful_ ), his face, his chest, his spirit, trying to get it all just right.

 

* * *

 

Grantaire would officially consider himself obsessed.

Eponine agreed.

 

* * *

  
Grantaire was in the middle of a very heated text conversation with Eponine about whether jam-filled donuts were an acceptable replacement for fruit when it happened. One second he was walking through the “Revolution Gallery" with a beer in his left hand his phone in his right, and the next he was taking a sip of air. He glanced down at his empty hand and frowned; he knew he wasn’t drunk yet, he’d barely even had two sips...

“Must’ve put it down somewhere,” he muttered to himself. Then he turned around saw the boy from the Apollo painting was _leaning out of the picture frame_ and he was _holding Grantaire’s beer._

“No drinking during night shifts,” Apollo said in his perfect voice.

Grantaire stumbled backwards, barely containing a scream, and scrambled to call Eponine. _This is it_ , he thought, _I’ve finally cracked_. All these years of living alone and talking to himself and cats had finally caught up with him, and now he was hallucinating artwork coming to life.

“Hello?” Eponine’s voice travelled up to him from his phone. “R?”

He raised his phone to his ear with a shaking hand, eyes fixed on the painting, who was still leaning out of his frame, watching Grantaire with cold curiosity. “Eponine?” he whispered. “Eponine, the painting is talking to me.” The words sounded even crazier out loud. He squeezed his eyes shut. _Please be dreaming, R, you fucking bastard_ , he thought.

“It’s _what_?”

“It’s...it’s talking to...um, you know what, hang on, I’m going to switch this to a video call.” He somehow managed to press enough buttons that Eponine’s face appeared on his screen, and when he showed her what was going on, that the painting had come to life, her eyes widened.

“Oh fuck,” she said, which was actually pretty helpful. At least he wasn’t hallucinating.

He switched back to a normal phone call. “What do I do? Do we have protocol for this? Is this normal? This isn’t normal, is it?” His sentences came out faster and more panicked than he wanted them to.

“Um, okay so, here’s the thing.” She was silent for a few moments, and then said, “Actually, I’ll come to you. It’s hard to explain. Don’t panic though, okay? I promise he’s harmless.”

He turned away from the painting. “Why aren’t you panicking? Is this normal in your world? Does this happen often? Eponine?”

“Just—just try to relax. I’m on my way right now. I can be there in about twenty minutes. But R? I’m going to have to hang up to get on the metro, okay?”

“I...yeah, sure.” He took a deep breath. “Okay, so I’ll just...?”

“Wait for me in the gallery.” He could hear her locking her front door. “Maybe try talking to him? See what he wants. Maybe flirt a bit?” She laughed. “R, I may owe you an apology. Maybe you’ll get a date with him after all.”

 

* * *

   
Eponine arrived twenty minutes later, just like she said she would. By now, Grantaire was losing his shit, because not only did Apollo's portrait come to life, but so did his friends, and now they were talking to each other from across the gallery. Grantaire sat in the centre of the room, head in his hands, listening to them catch up after, what, 200 years of silence?

“Hey, Grantaire!” Eponine ran over to him and dropped a white paper bag in his lap. He carefully unfolded it, his head cloudy, and he hoped it was alcohol or proof that he was dreaming. Instead, she had brought him a bag of cookies. “Cossette made them,” she explained. “I thought you might need some.”

“What the fuck is happening?” he whispered to the cookies, like they held all the answers in their chocolate chips. He took a small bite of one.

“Okay, first of all, I think introductions are in order.”

He nearly choked on his bite. “Intro- _what_?” He groaned and looked up with her. “Is this a game? Am I being punked? Are we on some crappy lets-fuck-with-people-while-they’re-at-work gameshow?”

Eponine held out her hand to him, and he reluctantly took it so she could pull him off the floor. “No, it’s...more complicated than that.”

“Stop being so cryptic.”

“I know, I know,” she gave his hand a squeeze as she pulled him along towards Apollo. “Hang on a little longer.” As they approached him, the boy stopped talking to his friends and looked at Grantaire, who felt his face grow warm.

“Hi Enjolras,” Eponine said with a smile.

 _What the fucking shit is fucking going on what the fuck he has a name?!_ Grantaire wanted to cry. _How did Eponine figure out his name?_

The boy—painting—Enjolras smiled back at Eponine.

“This is Grantaire,” she said, giving him a pat on the back. Grantaire winced. “I think you gave him a bit of a fright.”

Enjolras stared directly into Grantaire’s unworthy eyes. “Well, I was just trying to tell him that he shouldn’t be drinking while at work.”

“You were what?” Eponine spun to face Grantaire. “Grantaire!”

He held up his hands. “Hey, um, message heard loud and clear. But can we, um, can _someone please explain to me what’s going on_?”

Eponine and Enjolras exchanged looks.

“Yeah, so here’s the thing R. Enjolras is sort of a real person from the 1800s, trapped inside this painting.”

Grantaire’s vision bounced around, and he felt unsteady on his feet. “Oh,” he said, feeling nearly hysterical by this point. “Oh that’s great, that’s—”

And then he felt his body hit the floor.

 


	2. UPDATE

Hi lovelies! This is just a quick update to let you all know that I AM going to continue writing this story! I'm incredibly busy right now though, so I can't promise when I'll get the next chapter out (but I promise it'll happen!).

And thank you to everyone for the kind words you left in the comments <3 I promise I'll respond to each of you soon as well!

Hope you're all doing well, and thanks again for reading!

xx  
Gina

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:  
> The name of the exhibit in English is 'LONG LIVE THE PEOPLE: A History/Story of the Republican Uprising of Paris in June 1832'. 
> 
> So, leave it as a one-shot or keep going? Let me know in the comments below, and come say hi to me on tumblr [@gina-writes!](http://gina-writes.tumblr.com)
> 
> xx  
> Gina


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